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The gentle trotting through town did nothing to soothe Marguerite's aching heart. The journey rendered her nauseous, and she abhorred riding backwards. And rambling about the Duchess of Torrinni—in front of Céleste, no less—almost gave away the memories of her youth; those that flared up her temper and caused her to raise her voice.

Staring out the window, her shaking arm holding up the flap, she groaned as she sensed a slight kick on her thigh—Céleste was yet again hanging out the other side.

She bit her tongue, imagining the scene behind her, where the castle's thick, dizzying high stone gates would be coming into view, their shiny surface glimmering under the light of the moon.

The coach stopped while the driver spoke to the gate guard. She wouldn't let him see her—she'd have enough incidents to prevent inside the castle and preferred not to deal with one now.

Her eyelashes fluttered as she abruptly realized the cloak she wore now was the same she'd worn the night she ran from Torrinni forever.

Why did I not bring other cloaks?

The serene hue of the lantern kept her calm, its flames dancing over the worn-down walls. Her breath materialized before her as her lungs squeezed out air.

She lowered her hat and lifted the window fabric once more as the vehicle resumed its trek to the castle. She leaned out, and rotating to the building in the distance behind her, she noticed candelabras brightening the end of the lengthy driveway, lining the path to the grand doors.

The pebbles beneath the wheels prompted the freight to wobble back and forth in nauseating motions. She heard Céleste grumble as she hauled herself inside.

Marguerite didn't move a muscle. She was used to the discomfort. She peered at the gates and at the black outline of the stables against the fortifications. The horses neighed, and for an instant, she pictured herself leaping from the carriage, jumping atop a wild steed, and disappearing.

I would not get far—she would locate me again.

She held in her malaise as best as she could, glancing sideways at Johanna for comfort.

Light poured into the vehicle as they navigated past the flickering candelabras, headed towards the courtyard. In her teenage days, Marguerite hadn't often seen the driveway at night, rarely allowed to wander out after supper. If she did venture out, she stuck to the gardens in the rear, accompanied by a royal or a guard.

She gazed at the castle's four stories of enchanting windows, hypnotizing arches, fairy tale balconies. The ghosts of her past slid over the weathered pale-yellow facade, moaning her name from the tiled rooftops, beckoning her to the observation tower that loomed above the main entrance.

Her world broke apart, seam by seam, as images she'd wished to keep concealed forever resurfaced. Her eyes welled with tears for the second time since they'd departed.

The Golden Girl (#2 in the GOLDEN series)Where stories live. Discover now